There
were worse things than an ugly face. Like being stuck at home on Saturday
morning.

“Wendy,
don’t forget!” Mom’s voice spanned the house from end to end.

Blood
rushed to my cheeks, and my head pounded. Cut
me some slack, would you? No wonder Daddy left us.

God, I didn’t mean that.

I
loved my mother—I just hated that she got to lie in bed on Saturday morning
recovering from surgery while I hurried to do all the chores. Carpal Tunnel
Syndrome. Her job caused the problem, but I suffered the consequences. And I
wanted to get over to Jennifer’s house, like now, to show her the note.

A
week’s worth of bath towels folded in under a minute—a new record. But instead
of checking “Fold towels” on the chore list, I poked a hole in the paper with
my pencil.

Rrrip.

The
paper tore on the upstroke, while the pencil point broke off and flew who knows
where. I growled and lifted the stack of towels.

“Wendy,
did you hear me?”

I
blew air through my teeth like pressure out of a tire. “Don’t worry. Your
sheets are on my list.” I dug my chin into the tower of towels to keep it from
swaying out of control as I carried it from the laundry room.

“There’s
old dead skin in my bed, you know.”

I
pictured a snake wriggling out of its skin and leaving it behind in one piece,
like I’d seen on one of the nature channels. What a drama queen. Ever since she
read that our bodies lose skin cells in our beds each night, she obsessed about
those sheets. I would’ve rolled my eyes, but it was hard enough to watch where
I was going.

When
I made a sharp turn into the living room, something hooked the ragged corner of
a towel—the beak of a giant glass parrot rescued in one of Mom’s roadside
scavenger hunts. Its head extended beyond the sofa table’s edge.

“Oh…!”
I clamped my lips together, having made a promise to Father Gerard at my last
confession not to cuss. I stuck my hand out just in time and prevented the
rainbow-colored monstrosity from toppling over.

Mom
now stood in the opening between the hallway and living room. She nodded in the
direction of the parrot. “That’s probably one of a kind.”

How
about embarrassing piece of junk.
Like almost everything in our house. Once covered in somebody else’s dust and
grime, it now made up part of what she called our décor. I couldn’t wait until I graduated from high school and got
my own place. Everything would be brand new.

After
dropping the towels onto the bathroom counter, I ran to Mom’s room to strip her
bed. Better go ahead and get it over with. There would be plenty left to do
when I got back from Jennifer’s. I pulled back the antique quilt and threw it
to the floor then yanked the sheets off the mattress.

Why
couldn’t I have an older brother? He would help me with the heavy chores, plus
watch out for me. We could hang around together, and Mom wouldn’t be so lonely
for Dad. He would look a lot like me, with brown hair and brown eyes, but
taller and …

Mom
shuffled toward the kitchen wearing her ratty old bathrobe with the fuzzy pink
flowers. She would want her coffee.

I
started the washing machine and caught up with her in her favorite spot at the
kitchen table. She studied the splint on her right wrist and the soft brace on
her left. I poured a mug of coffee and placed it in front of her. “What would
you like for breakfast?”

She
smiled. “Just some scrambled eggs and toast. Thanks, sweetie.”

“After
we eat, can I go on over to Jen’s?” I dropped some whole wheat slices into the
toaster and cracked four eggs into the skillet.

“Sure,
if you call first and make sure it’s all right with her parents. And—”

“I
know, Mom. Call you when I get there.” What did she think? I’d be abducted by
aliens? I was almost fourteen years old, for heaven’s sake.

Her
gaze relaxed and turned toward her coffee. She wrapped the five swollen fingers
of her left hand around the mug handle and took a sip. “The toast smells like
it’s ready.”

I
manually popped up the toast as the first crumbs began to burn then set a plate
of scrambled eggs and toast on the table.

She
curled the fingers of her right hand around her fork and lifted a piece of egg
to her mouth as though it weighed a hundred pounds.

I
tried to ignore how pitiful she looked while I shoveled in a few bites of egg
without tasting them and gulped down a small glass of orange juice.

“Slow
down before you choke. Jennifer can wait an extra five minutes.” Translation:
Stay and eat breakfast with me.

I
slowed down only a little and cleared away my dishes before Mom finished. With
a quick phone call, I got permission from Jennifer’s father.

“Give
me a hug.” Mom reached out her arms.

I
hugged her good-bye and bolted for the back door.

“Maybe
we’ll order pizza for dinner. Be home before dark.” Her volume control went up
a notch on each word of her last sentence.

I
let the door slam behind me.

An
April morning in Louisiana waited outside, one as perfect as it gets for riding
a bike on the curving streets of Maywood Hills. Clear and sunny, but only warm
enough to keep the goose bumps away. Rain had washed most of the pollen from
cars and patio covers where it had collected the week before, leaving little
dried-up rivers of yellow on the ground. A cool breeze tickled my nose. The air
never smelled so clean.

Freedom.
I swung my leg over the seat of my dark blue Schwinn, a joint Christmas gift
from Mom and Dad.

My
new sports bra—the smallest one I could find in the store—was still a little
stiff and scratchy against my chest, but beat-up Reeboks more than made up for
that discomfort. I pulled my ponytail from beneath the collar of my windbreaker
and zipped the jacket halfway up. Better zip all the way up for the ride. Rats!
The zipper’s teeth caught my t-shirt. A thrift store find. “Never Underestimate
the Power of a Woman,” it read. I twisted my mouth to the left and struggled
with the zipper. Man, it was really stuck. Whatever. I’d have to deal with it
later.

I
released the kickstand and pushed forward. Was my front tire going flat? If
that squishy black ring beyond my khaki shorts and bony winter-white legs was
any indication, yeah, it could use a pump or two of air. Forget it. I was
running late enough already.

I
took off down the cracked driveway with clothing pressed against the front of
my body like shrink-wrap. Scrawny leg muscles worked to put as much distance
between me and my life as possible.

One
back pocket held the note. The other carried the guilt.

I
shot like a rocket up the street, headed toward Jennifer’s house. Cars and
trucks parked in driveways and along the curb reflected my funhouse-mirror
image. My head stretched and shrank, eyeballs drooped and then disappeared; my
nose ballooned out. I was a monster—a girl who abandoned her mother. My heart
and stomach swapped places. Was I like my father? Someone who put his personal
happiness ahead of his own family? I couldn’t be like him.

I
squeezed my eyes shut for a second and shook my head to rearrange my thoughts.
I had to see Jennifer. She would make everything better.

My
spirits lifted as I turned the corner into the newer section of Maywood Hills.
Houses grew taller and wider, with fresh paint and roofs without patches or
missing shingles. Green front lawns called out to children to lie down in the
grass and lose themselves in cotton-puff clouds playing in the sky.

Half
a block away, Jennifer sat cross-legged on the sidewalk near her mailbox, her
golden hair gleaming in the sunlight.

I
glanced at my watch. Yes! Another record broken. Less than five minutes from my
driveway to Jennifer’s house, in spite of a low tire. I smiled to myself and
pulled off the street.

Jennifer
leapt to her feet and ran to meet me in the driveway as soon as I started
slowing down. I coasted my bike up to her.

“Wait
’til you see,” she said before I had a chance to stop and reach into my pocket.
Her cheeks glowed a healthy pink through a scattering of freckles.

“What
is it?” I slid off the seat and lowered the kickstand.

She
pressed her lips together as if to keep a juicy secret from spilling out. Her
hand locked onto mine, and she dragged me around the side of the house to the
backyard. “Look.”

Five
tiny puppies lay in the grass near the wall. Turned every which-way with heads,
legs, and tails overlapping one another, they slept against their mother’s
belly. Two of the puppies were black, one was brown, one was yellow like its
mother, and the last was honey-colored.

My
insides melted. “Oh-h-h,” I whispered. “Where did you get them?”

“We
heard crying last night and found them back here. My dad said somebody might
have dropped them off, or maybe the mother dog moved them here to protect
them.”

Mr.
Sampson walked up and stood beside us. “What do you think, Wendy Robichaud?” He
pronounced my last name with a funny French accent, like Inspector Clouseau of
those old Pink Panther movies. It didn’t really sound Cajun like my dad’s
relatives, but that was okay.

“They’re
so cute.” I could barely take my eyes off the puppies long enough to
acknowledge him.

“Can
we keep one, pl-e-e-ease?” Jennifer begged her father—not for the first time, I
was sure. Only five months difference in our ages but she could be such a baby
sometimes.

“Well,
we’ll keep them all for now, at least.” Mr. Sampson patted and squeezed
Jennifer’s shoulder. “They need to stay with their mother until they get a
little bigger.”

Jennifer
grinned and squealed and bounced on her toes.

“They’ll
take a lot of work, though.” Mr. Sampson raised his brows at us. “And someone
will have to find permanent homes for them eventually.”

My
heart still ached from the memory of my dog, Angel. I’d found her fluffy white
body lying next to a pair of Dad’s old shoes after he’d moved out. Could a dog
die of grief? No dog deserved to be abandoned by someone it loved. This dog and
her puppies needed a second chance at happiness. Maybe Jennifer and I could
give that to them.

I’d
have to work something out with Mom, and that could be a challenge. Let’s see,
if I got off the bus at three thirty and took about an hour and a half to do
chores and help fix dinner, another hour and a half for homework, a half hour
for television, and a half hour to get ready for bed, that would leave an hour
and a half I could use for the puppies. A tight schedule, but doable if Mom
cooperated. “I’ll help.” I nodded like a bobblehead. “I can come over every day
after school.”

Mr.
Sampson smiled. “Chienne chanceaux—she’s
a lucky dog,” he said, and the name stuck.

I
borrowed Mr. Sampson’s cell phone to call Mom. Then Jennifer and I got to work.
We cut an opening in one side of a cardboard box and used an old blanket Mr.
Sampson found in the attic to make a soft bed. We placed the bed by the back
door of the covered patio and filled a bowl with water and a pie pan with dry
dog food Mrs. Sampson had purchased.

Chanceaux
watched our every move, her big brown eyes flitting between her puppies and us.
Jennifer and I spoke in soft voices and were careful not to make much noise.

“Do
you think Chanceaux will let us?” I asked. The puppies had finished nursing and
had fallen asleep again.

“I
think she understands we won’t hurt her babies. Let’s try.” She patted the
blanket with one hand. “Come on, girl.”

Chanceaux
looked at her, eyed the blanket, and walked over to her new bed.

We
carried the puppies one at a time and placed them next to their mother. The
last one I picked up was my favorite, the honey-colored runt of the litter. I
stroked her velvet ears against my cheek and inhaled her sweet, milky
puppy-breath. Her eyes weren’t open yet, but I could tell she liked me.

With
the puppies settled in place, I dusted my hands on the back of my shorts.

The
inside of Jennifer’s house was like a beautiful banquet, and every part of me
craved what it offered. I ran my hand over the back of a buttery-soft, white
leather chair. My soul drank in the colorful modern paintings framed in chrome
that hung above the matching sofa. My eyes gobbled up the glazed pottery and
shiny silver objects resting on dark wood tables polished to a high gloss.
Nothing was stale or dusty or musty like at my house. I took a deep breath,
inhaling delicious smells of clean, of fresh, of never-been-used-before.

When
we reached Jennifer’s room, I closed the door behind us. I pulled the note from
my pocket and handed it to her. “Look what somebody wrote to me.”

“Hmm.”
Jennifer held the note in her right hand and placed her left index finger
against her cheek.

“So
what do you think?”

“Wait
a minute.” She walked over to her desk and picked up a magnifying glass.

“Just
tell me!” Laughing, I grabbed a lace-trimmed throw pillow off the bed and fired
it at her.

She
dodged the pillow without taking her eyes off the piece of paper. “‘Nice
face,’” she read aloud, adding, “No signature.” Her blonde brows pinched
together above her nose.

“Right,”
I said, “and it’s printed instead of script.”

“It
seems like they would have said ‘You have a nice face’ or ‘I like your face.’”
She turned the note over and checked the other side. “‘Nice face’ sounds a
little weird.”

“Or
sarcastic, depending on how you look at it.”

She
shrugged. “Maybe it’s meant to be a compliment from somebody who likes you.”

“Well,
if that’s the case, it would’ve been nice if he—if it is a he—had asked me to the Spring Dance. His timing stinks. I had to
stay home last Saturday night like the rest of the losers.”

“I didn’t go.” She placed her free hand
on her hip. “And I was with you.”

“But
you could have gone. Any boy at school would’ve flipped if you’d asked him.”

She
rolled her eyes. “Just forget about that.”

“Okay,
okay.” I obviously wasn’t going to get any sympathy.

She
handed the note back to me. “So, where’d you find it?”

“Stuck
inside the cover of my history book.”

“Then
maybe it’s from somebody in history class.”

“Maybe,
but the book sat on top of my backpack in the bus line after school yesterday.”

“Then
it could be from almost anybody.”

This
was getting me nowhere. I lowered my chin and looked up at her from beneath my
brows. “I know.”

Yeah,
like I needed another project. “But really, do you think it’s from a girl—or a
boy?”

“Because
the letters are so blocky, my guess is a boy.” She gave a single nod in
confirmation of her decision and rummaged through a shopping bag on the floor.

I
couldn’t argue. Jennifer had proven herself the better authority on the subject
of boys often enough. For sure, boys paid more attention to Jennifer than to
me, and she didn’t even have to make an effort. She had the start of a great
body and was the natural kind of pretty. Not the Tookie Miller kind that
scraped off and left a white spot if she scratched her face.

“Good.
I found it.” Jennifer pulled her iPod out of the bag. “I downloaded some music.”

While
she docked the iPod on her speakers, I went straight to the chamber of
fascination otherwise known as Jennifer’s closet. So much clothing crammed in
there. Little strips of color like in a Vincent van Gogh painting. “Bought
anything lately?” I poked around in the overflowing junior-sized fashions.
Without meaning to, I knocked one end of a hanger out of a blouse. The blouse
stayed in place, squeezed between the others like it was glued there. “Sorry.”

“Ha!”
Jennifer bellowed. “That happens all the time.”

Like
a magician performing a scarf trick, she reached in and whipped out two new
outfits. “Now, this blue and white-striped button-down casual shirt looks great
with these khaki pants.” She held the first outfit against her front. “And this
red knit top with the bow on the neckline works with this black satin skirt
because it’s not orangey-red. That would be too Halloween-y.”

I
laughed but nodded. Jennifer acted so serious when coordinating her wardrobe.

“Want
to borrow?” She began re-hanging the items.

None
of Jennifer’s clothes looked as comfortable as the t-shirts and shorts I liked
for spring. “No thanks, I’m good for now. My mom and I hit the after-Easter
sales.”

“Okay.”
Jennifer started at one end of the closet and reviewed piece by piece until
Mrs. Sampson tapped on the door and saved me.

“Lunch.”

“Thanks,
Mom.” Jennifer took the tray of sandwiches, potato chips, and sodas from her
hands.

We
climbed onto Jennifer’s mountain of a bed and ate under its pink and white
ruffled canopy while we listened to her favorite songs. I preferred others, but
that was okay. True friendship must have give-and-take like that.

“Oh,
I almost forgot.” Jennifer rolled over from where we lay side by side across
her comforter, drowsy from lunch. She sat straight up.

I
reluctantly lifted my head from the down-filled coziness and propped up on my
elbows.

“You’re
not going to believe what I’m getting.” Her eyes grew big and round.

“What?”

“A
makeover.”

The
words hit me like a punch to the stomach. Maybe by a two-year-old, but still,
it didn’t feel good. I sat straight up too and blinked once, hard. In front of
me were Jennifer’s long blonde hair, little turned-up nose, and perfect
complexion that didn’t even need makeup. If anybody needed a makeover, it was
me. I could’ve used a makeover-haul.

Jennifer
waited, staring at me.

I
reminded myself that I was her best friend. “When?” I forced a smile.

“Next
Saturday. My mom’s treating herself to one for her birthday, and she’s letting
me have one, too. We’re going to the salon at the mall. Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah.
I can’t wait to see what they do to you.” My enthusiasm sounded real enough. To
me, anyway.

“I’ll
come over afterward and show you.”

“Promise?”
I asked.

“Promise.”
She raised her right hand, with the first three fingers upright and her thumb
holding down her bent pinkie. The Girl Scout sign.

The
rest of the afternoon passed like a flash. It always did when we were together.

As
I rode my bike home at dusk, I tried to be happy for Jennifer about her
makeover. I really wanted to be. But she already had everything—a great house,
great clothes, great parents, and good looks, too.

An
unfamiliar thought entered my mind: Why did everything good have to happen to
Jennifer instead of me? I tried to shove the thought aside. It stayed. I
gritted my teeth and rode faster, hoping to leave the idea behind me on the
street. I had to dodge a basketball and almost lost control of the bike. The
thought was still there. What was that commandment? Thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor’s…life. I repeated the commandment to myself all the way home. But
envy continued to build as I left Jennifer’s world and returned to my own.

Synopsis

"Funny how you can live your days as a clueless little kid, believing you look just fine ... until someone knocks you in the heart with it."

Wendy Robichaud doesn't care one bit about being popular like good-looking classmates Tookie and the Sticks--until Brainiac bully John-Monster schemes against her, and someone leaves anonymous sticky-note messages all over school. Even the best friend she always counted on, Jennifer, is hiding something and pulling away. But the spring program, abandoned puppies, and high school track team tryouts don't leave much time to play detective. And the more Wendy discovers about the people around her, the more there is to learn.When secrets and failed dreams kick off the summer after eighth grade, who will be around to support her as high school starts in the fall?

8 Notes to a Nobody received the Catholic Writers Guild Seal of Approval. In its original edition, Bird Face, it won a 2014 Moonbeam Children's Book Award, bronze, in the category Pre-teen Fiction Mature Issues.

Texas Association of Authors?is the only organization in Texas whose focus is to promote the authors within the great state of Texas itself. Texas Authors leverages the knowledge and expertise of many different authors to help promote others within the world of reading and writing.